* * * * * Thus things stood with her, when one of the first days after Easter word was brought her to go down to the parlour to her betrothed. As soon as he came toward her and held out his hand, she felt there was somewhat amiss—his face was not as it was wont to be; his small, grey eyes did not laugh, they did not smile when he smiled. And Kristin could not help seeing it became him well to be a little less merry. He looked well, too, in a kind of travelling dress—a long blue, close-fitting outer garment men called _kothardi_, and a brown shoulder-cape with a hood, which was thrown back now; the cold air had given his light-brown hair a yet stronger curl. They sat and talked for a while. Simon had been at Formo through Lent, and had gone over to Jörundgaard almost daily. They were well there; Ulvhild as well as they dared look that she should be; Ramborg was at home now, she was a fair child and lively. “’Twill be over one of these days—the year you were to be here at Nonneseter,” said Simon. “By this the folks at your home will have begun to make ready for our betrothal feast—yours and mine.” Kristin said naught, and Simon went on: “I said to Lavrans, I would ride hither to Oslo and speak to you of this.” Kristin looked down and said low: “I, too, would fain speak with you of that matter, Simon—alone.” “I saw well myself that we must speak of it alone,” answered Simon, “and I was about to ask even now that you would pray Lady Groa to let us go together into the garden for a little.” Kristin rose quickly and slipped from the room without a sound. Soon after she came back followed by one of the nuns with a key. There was a door leading from the parlour out into an herb-garden that lay behind the most westerly of the convent buildings. The nun unlocked the door and they stepped out into a mist so thick they could see but a few paces in among the trees. The nearest stems were coal-black; the moisture stood in beads on every twig and bough. A little fresh snow lay melting upon the wet mould, but under the bushes some white and yellow lily plants were blooming already, and a fresh, cool smell rose from the violet leaves. Simon led her to the nearest bench. He sat a little bent forward with his elbows resting upon his knees. Then he looked up at her with a strange little smile: “Almost I think I know what you would say to me,” said he. “There is another man, who is more to you than I—” “It is so,” answered Kristin faintly. “Methinks I know his name too,” said Simon, in a harder tone. “It is Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby?” After a while Kristin asked in a low voice: “It has come to your ears then?” Simon was a little slow in answering.